Let’s be clear: Poison isn’t just a movie—it’s a public health hazard. Watching Todd Haynes’ debut feature feels like downing a bottle of expired Pepto-Bismol mixed with Tabloid TV reruns, bargain-bin sci-fi, and prison yard erotica, then waiting for your stomach to ask why you hate yourself. It’s a film that tries to serve three separate entrées on one plate and ends up with a lukewarm casserole no one wants to touch. If this is the “queer new wave,” then the tide rolled in carrying dead fish.
Three Stories, None of Them Good
The movie is split into three segments that awkwardly take turns suffocating you:
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Hero – A seven-year-old shoots his dad, then flies away. Filmed like a Dateline NBC parody, except without the comedy. Think Unsolved Mysteries minus Robert Stack’s voice, plus a child murder.
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Horror – A mad scientist discovers the “elixir of human sexuality,” drinks it, and transforms into a leper. It’s like The Fly but made by someone whose budget wouldn’t even cover Jeff Goldblum’s hairspray.
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Homo – A prison romance between two men who once knew each other as kids. Alternates between grimy cell-block melodrama and hazy flashbacks so pastoral they look like a toilet paper commercial.
Each segment could, theoretically, be a full film. Instead, Haynes splices them together like a film-school Frankenstein. The result? Every time you start to mildly tolerate one story, you’re yanked into another, like cinematic whiplash administered by a sadistic DJ.
Hero: The World’s Worst After-School Special
“Hero” is shot in the style of a sleazy tabloid exposé, which sounds fun until you realize it’s basically a 45-minute episode of Inside Edition about a child patricide. Little Sean shoots his abusive dad, then flies away. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like Peter Pan with unresolved trauma. Instead of grappling with this bizarre miracle, the segment spends its time cutting between fake interviews, talking heads, and melodramatic narration that makes America’s Most Wanted look like Shakespeare.
The performances are so flat they could be ironed. Edith Meeks as the reporter has all the gravitas of a woman reading her grocery list. And when Sean takes flight, it’s less a moment of catharsis than an excuse to show off some bargain-basement wire work. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s… oh, never mind. It’s just Poison.
Horror: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Leprosy
The “Horror” segment wants to be a love letter to 1960s B-movies but plays more like a ransom note. Dr. Graves (Larry Maxwell) discovers the “elixir of human sexuality,” downs it, and becomes a horny leper who kills people. I wish I were exaggerating. Imagine if Dr. Jekyll’s big crime was being slightly too damp.
The black-and-white cinematography is meant to be campy homage but instead screams “we couldn’t afford color film.” The pacing is glacial, the acting is stiffer than the corpses, and the makeup effects look like papier-mâché left out in the rain. Watching Graves stumble around oozing slime is less scary than watching your uncle try to eat spaghetti after a few beers.
The climax—if you can call it that—involves Graves being hunted down like a monster, but the real monster here is the runtime.
Homo: Brokeback Cellblock
Then there’s “Homo,” the segment that critics praised as bold and erotic, but which mostly looks like a Calvin Klein underwear ad shot inside Rikers. John Broom (Scott Renderer) and Jack Bolton (James Lyons) rekindle their youthful attraction while navigating prison politics. This could have been moving—if either actor had chemistry. Instead, their love scenes feel like two mannequins trying to figure out how Velcro works.
The flashbacks to their childhood are filmed in glowing soft focus, like a tampon commercial directed by Terrence Malick. Butterflies, fields, longing stares—it’s so overcooked it feels like Haynes was afraid we wouldn’t get it unless he screamed, “SEE? LOVE IS PURE!” Meanwhile, in the prison sequences, everything is shot with all the gritty realism of a high school stage play.
It’s not that the themes of repression, desire, and brutality aren’t worth exploring. They are. It’s just that Poison handles them with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer dipped in glitter.
Todd Haynes: An Auteur with Scissors
Haynes clearly thought he was making a profound statement by intercutting the three stories. The problem is, they don’t actually connect. Sure, they all deal with transgression, sexuality, and alienation—but so does literally every horror movie ever made. What you end up with is a mess: tabloid satire smashed into body horror smashed into prison melodrama. It’s like ordering three cocktails and having the bartender pour them all into the same glass.
The editing is relentless, switching between segments just when you’re about to give up and check the time. It’s as if Haynes knew none of the stories could stand alone, so he decided to juggle them in the hopes of distracting us. It doesn’t work.
The Performances: A Parade of Wooden Faces
Let’s be kind and say that the actors do their best with what they’re given. Unfortunately, what they’re given is garbage. Larry Maxwell as Dr. Graves looks like he’s constantly trying to remember his lines. Scott Renderer and James Lyons, as the prison lovers, have all the passion of two guys waiting in line at the DMV. Edith Meeks as the tabloid anchor delivers her lines with such flat affect you wonder if she’s narrating from the afterlife.
Even John Leguizamo pops up under the pseudonym “Damien Garcia.” Blink and you’ll miss him. Honestly, he probably asked to be credited under a fake name just so no one could connect him to this mess. Smart move, Johnny.
Style over Substance, But the Style Sucks
Critics in 1991 hailed Poison as groundbreaking queer cinema. And yes, its unapologetic exploration of gay themes was radical for its time. But let’s not confuse bravery with competence. Bold subject matter doesn’t excuse sloppy execution. Representation is important, but representation in a movie this bad feels less like progress and more like sabotage.
The cinematography alternates between deliberately ugly and accidentally ugly. The dialogue is either painfully on the nose or laughably vague. The sound design is so uneven you half expect the boom mic to show up in frame. If this is art, then I’m a Monet painting every time I spill spaghetti sauce on my shirt.
The Legacy: Why?
Despite all this, Poison won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance. Because of course it did. Nothing screams “independent cinema” like a film that actively punishes its audience. Todd Haynes went on to make genuinely good movies (Far From Heaven, Carol), which only proves that Poison was the cinematic equivalent of training wheels—except the wheels were on fire and attached to a unicycle.
Today, Poison is remembered as a landmark of the “New Queer Cinema.” But landmarks aren’t always beautiful. Some are landfills.
Final Thoughts: A Dose You Don’t Want
Watching Poison is like being force-fed three different meals at once: a microwaved TV dinner, a rotting bologna sandwich, and a half-cooked steak. Separately, they’d still be bad. Together, they’re toxic.
If you’re looking for bold queer cinema, there are better options. If you’re looking for horror, drama, or sci-fi, there are better options. If you’re looking to lose all faith in independent film, Poison is waiting.
